Good Intentions
by shutterbones
Summary: Sophomore year for Kyle is getting a lot more complicated than he ever wanted. All he wants is to keep his best friend, but nothing ever goes right for him. Ever. Can a line ever truly be drawn?
1. Regret

This was it.

This. was. it.

He couldn't take it anymore, not by a single goddamn second. Running a nervous hand through his tangled red hair - and of course snagging every knot along the way - Kyle winced and dropped it back at his side, restless. Everyone could see him _staring, _and he knew it too, but he couldn't exactly _stop_.

Last week was stupid. Last week was a mistake. He kept telling himself that over and over, replaying the moment in his head like a broken record. Why the fuck would he ask such a stupid question? How the hell do you answer that?

_What do you think of me?_

How the hell do you ask your best friend that and _not_ expect an awkward look? It was a stupid mistake and he was stupid for doing it in the first place. Yet it still nagged, still tugged at his subconscious every waking second. He hadn't slept, and it showed. Dark circles were beginning to imprint under his eyes, and his hair was more unkempt and messy than it had ever been. Over the years he'd learned to tame the mess of monstrous red hair on his cranium over the years, but it had somehow reverted back to this snarling, tangled… creature over the past few days. He couldn't bother to fend for his hair, or his disheveled clothes and tired, wandering eyes. Eyes that kept watching _him_, purposely standing across the hallway and avoiding him.

Stan had pretended nothing was going on; for a _week_ Kyle agonized over the stupid remark, and yet his best friend never truly batted an eye about it. Not until _today,_ not until he couldn't even manage to look him in the eyes without flinching or cringing somehow. God, he _knew_ didn't he? That _look_ that instantly made him want to wither and die. Why did he have to open his big, fat mouth in the first place?

"Hey Kyle," a soft, foreign voice cracked through his thoughts. He turned to find the sullen, slightly weary looking face of Butters. He could tell how badly the separation was going for him - it showed on his tired face more than usual. Kyle couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid.

"Hey Butters," he smiled, faintly, with a nod. "How are you doing?" he asked, though he knew the words were empty. He saw the small light flicker on Butters' face before he looked at the floor and shrugged with a hollow smile.

"Oh, as good as I suppose it can be," he laughed. He caught a glance from him under a wall of blonde hair. "How's Stan doing?"

Kyle stiffened in his posture and turned wide, surprised eyes to Butters.

"W-What do you mean?" he bouted nervously. He saw a smile twinkle in the freshman's eyes, then fade.

"Oh, you know," he shrugged, "It's not like I don't know."

Kyle was honestly surprised.

"R-Really?" he swallowed a burrowing lump in his throat, nervously catching a glance back at Stan to see his back turned, laughing at some stupid joke from Clyde. He glanced back at Butters, who was slowly receding into his own posture, hands sunk under the crook of each arm.

"I've known for a while," he added with a quiet laugh. Kyle could have sworn he saw a twinge of regret leak into his features for a moment before disappearing. He shifted onto his other foot and sighed. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. S'no point, anyway," he shrugged, looking back up at Kyle. "You're my friend."

He could feel his face contorting into a mixture between confusion and relief. He breathed in deep, breaking his gaze from Butters' before crossing his arms and leaning back against the lockers, blowing it out of puffed cheeks.

"Thanks, dude.." he sighed. "I don't think I could handle much more torment at this point without having it spewed all over the school." He tipped his head back against the lockers, shutting his eyes. "I swear I thought I was hiding it so well, too," he laughed; bitter, repressed. Resentful.

"Y-You shouldn't have to hide it-" Butters started, then paused, assessing himself as the nagging stutter caught onto his voice again for a moment. He cleared his throat and stepped beside Kyle, unfolding his arms and dropping them listlessly at his sides. "He's your best friend, after all."

Kyle laughed.

"Yeah, that'll be a great conversation-" he said, shutting his eyes and waving a sarcastic hand in the air. "Just a simple _'So hey dude I think I'm in love with you, wanna hang out later?_', yeah.. that'll go over well." Kyle sighed in frustration and tapped the back of his head against the locker, then groaned in regret when a twinge of pain shot down his neck.

"Anyway, I should get going," he finished, leaning back upright from the lockers and turning to Butters. He seemed a bit disappointed the conversation was cut so short, but thankfully the sound of the third period bell interrupted any possibility for a lingering goodbye. Kyle wasn't sure he could take much more of Butters' depressing voice much longer; it was like talking to a ghost.

He waved off to his friend before jogging down the hall towards the south wing for Science.

_Just one more class to go and you're free._

_Just one more._


	2. Nirvana

"Dude, what is _up_ with you tonight?"

Kyle was losing - again - and didn't even realize it… again. He tried to mash the buttons on his controller a few times for good measure, but he knew the damage was done. Stan was staring at him, controller limp in one hand, eyes wide.

"Dude, what the fuck?" he shrugged. "You've been zoned out like.. all damn night." Kyle couldn't find words to explain or say. He felt tongue-tied, and humiliated, and terrified. Why the fuck was Stan doing this to him all of a sudden? He _hated_ feeling like this. Stan was always the best friend he could count on, the one person he never had a problem talking to. So why now? Why the hell was he stowing up all of a sudden?

"_Dude…_" Stan shook his head in disbelief before chunking his controller on the ground and flopping back against the edge of his bed, arms strewn across the sheets over his head. "Worst match ever." A quiet sigh, then he was sitting back up again and dropping his hands on his lap.

"So… what's up?" he shrugged. Kyle could feel himself physically receding, and curling back into his arms with deafening force from the _look_ Stan was giving. It was just a look, but he couldn't help but see every painful detail - the eyes that had refused to look at him earlier.

"Nothing," he blurted a little too quickly. Stan knew - Stan could already see the uneasiness in his features, the dark circles under his eyes. Even in the dark gloom of the bedroom, he probably looked like a corpse. "Just-" he tried to say, then stopped, shaking his head and looking away. "Nothin' dude, don't worry about it," he grumbled before pulling his knees up to his chest and staring across the room.

_Fuck._

Stan's hands were on him before he could react. He felt the wind knocked out of his lungs as his back hit the floor and he felt the weight of Stan's arms pinning him down. He was left staring, horrified, up at Stan hovering over him with a smile on his face.

"Fuck you dude," he laughed, tilting his head to one side. "You are shit at lying to me."

"Tell me about it.." Kyle muttered without thinking.

There was a pause, then.

A too-long, _friends shouldn't do this_ pause where Kyle became painfully aware of where Stan's hands were, and just how close in proximity they were to one another. This wasn't right. Regular guys didn't do this - he didn't think? Did they? Fuck, what was he _doing_?

Stan, to his horror, realized this too, yet did not move. They were left in a perpetual position of frozen shock and awkward touching where Stan's hands were on his bare arms and all he could think about was how damn _hot_ it was all of a sudden and _oh my fucking hell_ he was getting _hard_. This was.. _Not. Happening. _Shit. Shit. Shit.

_Shit._

Like a bright, screaming beacon Stan's eyes followed Kyle's, right to the _this-is-not-happening_ beginning to press against his jeans. Stan's head whipped back to face Kyle's, now ridden with shameful embarrassment that he'd witnessed it, too, but _they were still touching_ and fuck if he wasn't about to do something really, really stupid. Worse than last week, worse than-

Stan's mouth was on him. Hot, molten breath and lips and tongue suddenly thrust into his mouth without his consent.

He made a garbled, shrill noise before feeling the release of pressure on his arms, and instead moved to his hips. He was so abruptly concerned with the fact that he was probably dreaming - again - that he didn't realize his best friend was shimmying his hands under his shirt and _oh god_ his hands were on his stomach, now.

Muffled, quiet noises of protest died in an instant as he felt his body respond, and hands needily grasp at the back of Stan's shirt once he connected his long-aching desires to the sudden, present _offering_ that was pressing up against him with every forceful inch of movement. His mouth was rough and passionate, greedily taking and giving all at once. Kyle lost himself in a blur of heat and breath, of a hot, persistent mouth and grasping hands.

_This isn't happening.._

He could hear it in the back of his mind, nagging, as they stumbled and crawled backwards onto the bed. He felt his body fall against the cushion of pillow and sheets. Stan paused over him, briefly, with a fire in his eyes unlike any other, before ripping his shirt off and hungrily returning to his rightful position over Kyle's mouth.

He was lost in a violent, passionate daze of hands grabbing at whatever flesh he could, and awkward, rushed wiggling as Stan yanked off his jeans with animalistic force.

_This isn't happening, you'll wake up now._

_You'll wake up._

He could feel the hot, rasping breath on his neck. A hard boner pressed up against his stomach, making his hips turn up and his throat gurgle a groan of pleasure. _Fuck_ he wanted him, he wanted him _bad_, but this couldn't be real. It couldn't be right.

_He's going to regret this._

He wanted so badly to shut the fuck up. Please, for the love of god, for once just enjoy the dream while it lasts. It was the best and most blissfully real dream he'd ever had. He wanted to drink in every second of it, every damn, hard, heated, wild second of it.

_Nothing good ever happens to you._

_Shut the fuck up._

Stan was at his hips now, yanking off the boxers with impressive force as he tried yanking his own jeans off.

_This is just a dream._

_Shut the fuck up._

He was back in an instant, mouth and tongue shoving their way forcefully, needily into his own. Kyle could see the sheer _frustration_ on his face for not being able to get undressed quickly enough. He reached up with quiet, nervous hands and began to unbutton his pants. Stan stopped.

Their eyes finally met - for the first time since touching him on the floor, Stan actually looked him in the eyes. He paused like a deer caught in the headlights as the scene finally caught up with his conscious and he stared down at Kyle, stupefied, and heaving his chest in and out for breath. Kyle could see him already regretting it - he could see the doubt and fear and loathing in his eyes as he prepared to get up and leave.

Kyle hated that look in his eyes.

He opened his mouth to apologize, to tell him he was sorry and it would never happen again. Tell him he would go back to normal, and he would never have to worry about him.

Stan's hands wrapped around Kyle's - hands that had been injured, receding back to his chest - and brought them up to his face. He pressed his lips against the tips of his fingers and let them linger there, the breath of his nose relaying heat over his knuckles. He could feel the warmth of Stan's cheeks against the back of his hand, and felt his entire posture loosen.

"Please, don't be afraid," he mumbled into his hand. Kyle could feel his expression tightening into shock as he simply stared, breathless, up at the sight before him.

"Please.." he whispered into his hands, before turning his eyes on him. He leaned down over Kyle then, rejoining him on the bed as he laid back down and felt his bare chest press against his skin. He shuddered, eyes shutting briefly.

"I-I'm not," he murmured out in a rough, breathless whisper. Stan rested his forehead against Kyle's and shut his eyes, sighing. Kyle could feel his body shaking slightly, and slid nervous hands over his back.

"I'm not afraid," he breathed into his hair.

That was all Stan needed to hear.


End file.
